The bay windows in the living room. She loved those too.
All those extra elements that he’d had to defend to his father. All those extra elements he had fought for.
Forher.
And now she was packing to walk away from it?
Hehadto stop her. The idea of her walking out—it turned his stomach.
"This is your home.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “This is where you belong.”
“Tom, I can’t stay with you. Not now I know how you feel.” She looked up at him. Her eyes were tortured. “I… I can’t bear it.”
The idea of her moving out—leavinghishouse?—
“I’ll go,” he said, grasping at the only thing he could think of to stop her. “You stay.”
"Tom—"
His eyes landed on the side table. The spare keys to her parents' house sat there on that stupid, oversized keyring she’d made.
"I'll stay at your parents'." Tom snatched the keys. “You stay here." Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. He clenched his fists, the keyring digging into his palm.
She set the bag down and for a moment, relief surged—until he saw her face. That look of quiet anguish.
“This isn’t a fight, Tom.” Her voice was calm again, calm in the way that terrified him. “The man I married is ashamed of who I am. And I won’t—” Her voice broke, then steadied. "I can’t live like that.”
"I love you,” he said.
She gestured to herself, to her Rudolph slippers with the oversized red noses, the house cardigan with the buttons she’d painted to look like peppermints. “Do you? Do you really?”
Yes. He felt a hollow churn in his stomach. He just wanted her to be less… lesstacky.
Tom pulledinto the driveway of Lauren's childhood home and killed the engine. The house sat quiet in the early evening gloom.
He grabbed his bag from the passenger seat, the quilt from the backseat and headed for the front door. A wooden sign hung beside the door, hand-painted with swirling letters:Welcome to Our Home.
Tom rolled his eyes as he unlocked the door.
He'd been here before, obviously. Thanksgiving once a few years ago. Lauren's birthday a couple of times. But mostly they wenttohisparents’ house instead. Minimalist and refined. The art on their walls meticulously spaced.
Nothing to assault the senses.
Not like this house.
The walls in the entrance were crowded, layered with framed cross-stitch samplers. Dozens of them, every size and color, fighting for space. Saccharine messages in competing fonts.Home Sweet Home.Bless This Mess.Live Laugh Love.Flowers and birds and poetry.
The living room was worse.
Every surface had something on it. Crocheted doilies under every lamp. Throw pillows with garish designs—a watering can spilling fabric flowers, a basket of kittens, a patchwork heart. The couch was buried under a violently bright afghan, every square a nightmarish clash.
Above the fireplace hung an enormous painting of flowers in a vase: amateur brushstrokes, colors too bright. In the corner, a signature:Linda. Lauren's mother.
Wooden letters spellingFAMILYmarched across the mantel, each one painted a different color and decorated with stamps and stickers. Ceramic figurines crowded between them—angels, birds, children in old-fashioned dress.
A basket beside the couch overflowed with what looked like half-finished projects.
No wonder Lauren didn't know better.
